All These Things
by luvin-benadam
Summary: To cope with the atrocities after the end of the rebellion, Katniss does something she swore she'd never do. Post Mockingjay, pre Epilogue
I awake screaming, sweating, hands balled into tight, white fists clenching my drenched sheets. My lips shake, wrapping silently around words that don't leave my mouth, gasping air into my lungs that provides no solace, no comfort. Just warm tendrils of memory that seep into my lungs, choking me from the inside out. I toss the blankets from my body and swing my legs over the side of the bed, put off by the streams of heavy sunlight that draft through the curtains over my window.

This is why I shouldn't nap. Shouldn't sleep at all really, when the only rest I receive is plagued by nightmares of the arena, of the horrors that I've experienced.

I shake off the remnants of my dream and glance anxiously around the room, desperately searching for the only pair of arms that can provide me with any form of comfort. But I am resolutely alone.

"Peeta?"

Even to my own ears my voice sounds weak. The house is silent, just the breathing of the walls and the faint echo of the wind through its open surfaces to fill the void.

I walk on careful feet through the house, my body still shaking with the nightmare I can't rid, then collapse into a chair when I'm sure that no one is in the house, bracing my elbows on my knees and resting my face in my sweaty palms.

I am exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically. In every way there is for a person to be exhausted. I wake from nightmares to find no relief in reality. I need an escape. A reprieve. Just one day to try and forgot the atrocities that consume me. I am disgusted by myself for even considering it as an option.

But desperation is a powerful force.

Before I can out think my decision I am out my door and walking through his, not bothering to knock because I know he wont' answer. He is slumped against his kitchen table, hand absently playing with a bottle almost gone, hair matted and thick with dirt.

"Well hello there, sweetheart," he slurs against the wood without lifting his head. The effort is clearly too monumental. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to forget."

This gets his attention and with great effort he pushes his upper body from it's support to better see me. "And how am I supposed to help you with that?"

I can't bring myself to say the words, can't bring myself to speak aloud the lengths I am going to have a moment of solitude when I have made it so clear that I am disgusted by Haymitch and his lack of self control. But today I understand. Today I need it, too. So instead I hold my hand out and watch the barrage of conflict that flits across his face before he passes the bottle to me.

It doesn't even have a top.

I press my body into the seat opposite him and slip the bottle to my lips, tipping it back and down the lengths of my throat. It burns its passage down, settling heavy in my stomach and I relish in the immediate warmth that radiates through me, though the taste is repulsive.

"What's making you stoop so low today, sweetheart?" He asks with judgement burning in his eyes, though he does nothing to discourage me as I tip the bottle back to my lips and take another long sip.

"I just need to forget for awhile."

He seems to think this answer is satisfactory as he doesn't say another word. Silently he reaches below the table and pulls another bottle from somewhere on the floor, unscrewing it and placing it against his owns lips. I take this one to now be mine.

"Well that I can help with. Drink up."

I try to ignore the stab of guilt that courses through me, but it gets easier to ignore with every sip that passes through my body. There's a fiery warmth settling through my bones, pulling me down into my chair, body heavy but head light. My limbs feel weak and it takes great effort to move, but the relief that is accompanying the alcohol feels so good that I make the effort.

"Can I take this to go?" Already my voice sounds slurred.

Haymitch cocks an eyebrow at me but reserves his vocal judgement. "Sure, sweetheart."

I want to thank him but I feel like this isn't something he should be encouraging me doing, though I'm grateful that he has. So instead I push myself standing from the chair, tip the bottle in his direction as a tribute of sorts, and walk back into the late afternoon sun.

The liquid sloshes against the glass as I walk, one foot following the other in anything but a straight line. Though the sun is out, the air is still cool, hinting towards an early winter brought in by the brisk winds. Its freshness is soothing against the warmth ravishing my body and I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of it mingling with sunlight against the planes of my face.

My feet carry my body without my minds involvement, and before I know it I'm standing at the fence to the woods. The sweet swaying of the trees and the groaning of bark, the tendrils of leaves that float in spiral waves towards the grass below are all a symphony of invites, beckoning me towards their familiar comfort.

Carefully guarding my new best friend the bottle, I push my heavy body through the hole in the fence, feeling almost giddy in this place. My head is fuzzy and warm and though I can feel those horrific memories trying to drag to the surface, they seem far off and distant, as though they can't reach me in this state. I feel bad for my judgement of Haymitch. If this is the only relief there is, I can't blame him for escaping the only way possible. Being tormented is no way to live.

The woods are sweet. The warmth of the sun doesn't quite reach through the shade of the canopy of leaves above, but I have alcohol to keep me warm. It doesn't require me to think, it is memory that leads me through these woods, my feet walking the same path they've walked so many times before, winding through the thick bark to the spot I've been to a thousand times before. I slump against the rock, its hard surface providing much needed support to my body, and take another swig.

I close my eyes, expecting the familiar flood of Capitol induced nightmares to press against the dark of my eyes, but all I see instead is Gale. These woods, this rock, the ghost of his memory is etched into every leaf of these trees, every turn of dirt, every crooked bush. I smile, relieved to feel something other than pain, and clutch the bottle closer, too consumed in relief to read too much into how much I like this.

"Didn't think I'd see you out here."

My eyes snap open, disbelief knotting itself between my eyes. Am I imagining this? Have my memories of this place with him conjured a hallucination?

"Katniss?"

It is the concern in his voice that convinces me that he's real. The all too familiar tone that my name seems permanently inflicted with.

"Hi," I manage.

He smirks, trying to read my altered state, and takes his familiar spot next to me. When he spies the bottle, he lifts it from the dirt and smells the top, though I'm sure he knows what it is without that confirmation.

"What are you doing?"

I'm drunk, but I still pick up on the tone of displeasure.

"Drinking. You should try it."

I smile at him, hoping to quell his clear disapproval. His expression softens a little as he takes me in.

"I can't do it, Gale. I can't live every day with those memories. I just…" Words fail me. I need to tell him how much it means to me to just have a day of nothing. To remember nothing. "I just need to forget for awhile."

I don't know if it's my speech, or how pathetic I look collapsed in the dirt at his feet, but he hands the bottle back to me and I take it gratefully, taking another swig of its contents. I gaze towards him, broad shoulders clothed in a worn cotton tshirt, jeans faded and dull from years of wear, face scruffy with a smattering of hair that grows along the strong line of his jaw.

I want to touch it, want to run my fingers through its coarseness, so I reach out and place the tips of my fingers against his growing beard, a physical reminder that he is no longer just a boy. It is rough against the pads of my fingers and his eyes close as my skin finds contact with his. My fingers move across, slowly, to the pout of his lips, rubbing my thumb against them and remembering how they felt against my own. While his eyes are still closed, I press my lips to his. He lets me kiss him for a moment before pulling back, my name leaving his lips in a breath of awe.

"Katniss, I…"

I pull away, rejection dulled by the force of the liquor.

"You're drunk," he states simply and with a sigh.

I try to smile but all I can think about is how I want to kiss him again. Is of the feelings that stir inside me when he's this close. Is how, just for one afternoon, I want to feel something good. But I can't say any of those things, so instead I just press my lips to his again and hope to convey it all with my touch. His hand gently finds my arm and reluctantly pushes me back, but I kiss him harder, knowing that he'll give in because I know this is what he wants too. And sure enough he kisses me back, one hand cradling the side of my face, the other pulling my waist towards him.

This is what I needed. A cloudy mind, dulled from the horrors I can't escape, and Gale, tall and warm and needing me back. But it ends too quickly and soon he is untangling his limbs from mine and pushing himself standing and away from me.

"Katniss, I can't take advantage of you like this."

I can hear the turmoil in his voice and know that it's taking him a lot to hold onto his morals like this. "You're not, Gale. I kissed you."

He shakes his head. "I know, but you're drunk. You're not thinking clearly."

I stand too, to close the distance he's so desperately trying to put between us to gain clarity. "I am thinking clearly, Gale." I place my arms on either of his and turn him to face me. His eyes reluctantly find mine. "I might be drunk, but the only thing that's changed is that it's given me the courage to act on all the thoughts I have sober."

I can see his resolve soften.

"I am a mess. I can't sleep, can't close my eyes, can't do anything without being assaulted by nightmares of the arena. And yet, somehow, when I kiss you, that all disappears." I have no idea where these words are coming from, try hard not to read too much into what they will mean when I'm sober again. But it's not as though I'm lying. "Please, Gale." I try hard to not make it sound like I'm begging. "Please just let me feel something good for once."

I can see the conflict that rages behind his eyes, but nonetheless he lowers himself to me and kisses me, hard and passionate and full of years of memories. I can see them flit behind my eyes, happy times in these woods with him, safe and warm and far away from the Capitol's clutches. It's like with every kiss he somehow manages to erase the nightmares that haunt me. And while I'm sure they will return when my blood is free of liquor and my lips are no longer one with his, for now, in this moment, it is all I need.


End file.
